Calling All Ships Home
by rose-tinted-bones
Summary: A series of short stories that explore themes of everyday life: sorrow, joy, love and the insurmountable distances between those who ought to be closest of all. Contains multiple pairings.
1. Chapter 1

The sound of fingers tapping against cheap plastic—the _clack, clack, clack—_ echoed quietly in the dim room. A low orange light, obscured by a thin sheet of fabric, created shadows that stood still, like fantasy-play paused in the otherwise quiet room.

Hunched over a rickety, beat-up laptop was Eren Jaeger—seventeen, five-feet and seven inches, brown hair and blue-green eyes that widened with glee as his fingers continued to tap against the keys on the board, words written anew on a digital message.

"How was your day?" He read the new message aloud, breathy voice alight with something fierce, something warm.

"It was alright," he whispered along as he typed, as if his companion was beside him in the stillness of the room and not a thousand miles away. "Math sucked, but I got a B for History. Braun wanted to beat me up again, but I got away before he could sneak in a punch."

The reply was prompt, a simple "Again?".

Eren nodded, despite being alone. "Yeah, but it's okay. I'm used to it by now."

There was no response, but he was not worried. His—friend—was like that sometimes, when he was not sure what to say or if he thought Eren was being an idiot. Sometimes, Eren thinks it's more of the latter. Eren's not sure if he should be offended at how true it was.

* * *

He blinked, trying to chase away the sleep from his eyes as the professor droned on and on about carbons and alkyl halides and, well, Eren wasn't sure how to pronounce that so he'll just leave it as something that looked really complicated. Beside him, a classmate—Mikasa—flicked her eyes at him once before returning to the professor, right hand steadily taking down notes.

A quiet _ping_ brought him out his reverie, slipping down his seat to grab his phone from his pocket. He was sure that he heard a quiet sound of reprimand from Mikasa but his slumber-addled brain wasn't up and about to verify that.

Sneaking a peek at the professor, and seeing that the man was busy hitting another classmate of his (His name was Connie, right?) over the head with a ruler, Eren unlocked his phone and read the new message, unsurprised when he took in the sender.

"What are you up to?"

"Dying in Organic Chemistry. I am gonna fail this subject." Eren spoke, typing along the words as the seconds ticked by quietly.

Somewhere from behind, someone let out a small noise of surprise. He glanced at the professor, saw him wringing his hands over Connie, and when he looked behind, he was not surprised to see that it was Marco who made the noise.

Another typical day.

"You? What are you doing?"

As the professor continued on his lecture, from organohalides to Grignard reactions, Eren pocketed his phone and attempted to learn something. A few minutes later, in-between drawing hexagons and disproportionate, man-eating giants, his phone beeped and Eren smiled to himself.

Mikasa made another "tsk" sound and Eren read his message.

"Smith's working my ass off. Petra gave me coffee with cream, hate that shit. Hanji's being her PETA self, screaming about how rats have feelings. Bored as hell here."

He attempted to hold his laugh, but a glimmer of noise reached the professor's ear and a bark of "Got something to share, Mr. Jaeger?" before Eren was shaking his head, pen back in his hand.

The class returned to its slow, wearisome pace. Connie made a gagging expression at their other classmate, Sasha. The professor threw a textbook at the boy's head. Marco gasped.

Another typical day.

* * *

Eren raised his trembling hand to wipe the trickle of blood across his chin. Before he even knew what was happening, Braun had picked him up and rammed him against the locker. He grunted, felt the metal locks digging into his back, and he tried pushing the bigger man away.

Braun laughed, a harsh word escaping his lips before Eren was slammed again.

Around them, people passed by. Some paused, sympathetic—pitying—eyes glancing at the quiet boy with blue-green eyes that was being toyed around by the taller, bulkier blond man. A few brave souls let out words of "Stop it, Reiner" and "Knock it off, man" but it was like drops against an umbrella as Braun turned and snapped at them.

Many of them simply ignored the ruckus, already used to it.

Eren wondered if it was alright to get used to seeing someone being bullied. Deep down, he knew it was wrong. He was still working on making himself believe it.

A muttered "You're pathetic" and another slam later, and Eren slowly crumpled to the linoleum floor, the shadow of Braun fading from his vision.

Shoes scurried in front of him, different kinds in different shapes, sizes and colors until there was no more and Eren picked himself up, grasping the pieces in bleeding fingers. He wiped away the tears, pushed down the sadness and turned around. A trembling hand opened one of the lockers, pushing his books in. He took a glance at the one beside, saw the dents his body made as it was repeatedly slammed on it.

Quietly, he spied a blue post-it note and a marker by the corner of his locker. Writing with fingers that hurt, Eren bit his lip before slipping the note into the dented locker's slip, a sliver of the word "Sorry" reflecting off the fluorescent lights before disappearing.

Closing his locker and turning away, Eren took out his phone, seeing five new messages, all bearing the same written question.

"Are you okay?"

He wiped his eyes with his jacketed arm, slipping out of the hallway, his reply a second away from being sent.

"Yeah, I will be."

* * *

He was at an ice-cream parlor, a half-eaten cone in his left hand as his right hurried to tap the letters against the screen. Two tables down, a couple were quietly kissing, mostly hidden by the tall plant decor. Somewhere near the gallery where the ice cream was kept, a family of four argued—something about flavours and how vanilla was better than chocolate or sprinkles were for girls and the like.

He was by himself, the melting confection dripping down his fingers, but a bright smile was on his face as he read the messages on his phone.

"What time is it where you are at?" He spoke. He had always spoken the words along as he reads the message, always allowed himself to pretend that the other was there, beside him. He could almost envision it—the other would be frowning, yapping at Eren to finish his ice cream before it made a complete mess all over the younger.

"02:43. AM. Why are you waking me up, brat?" Eren laughed as he read along, a nearby customer turning to gift him a curious glance before returning to choose a flavour.

"I missed you." He replied, the words slithering out of his lips before he could stop them.

The other man pursed his lips, eyebrow twitching before closing his eyes, sighing and replied. A ping, and Eren smiled once again as "I miss you, too. Now let me sleep, you idiot" reached his eyes.

His ice cream was left forgotten.

* * *

It was the twenty-fourth of October, when the air had become chilly and the leaves on the trees had flashed from a healthy green into luscious gold. It was when Eren was bundled up in a coat too large for him, gloved hands in pockets, earpods in and walking down a quiet, lonely street when the music stopped and a beep sounded in his ears.

He took out his phone, earpods still in. Read the message.

"Turn around."

Confused, he turned. He smiled.

Before he even knew what was happening, Eren had bundled into his arms a veritable source of warmth, felt two arms timidly sneaking around, resting on his waist and Eren was sure he was no cat but, damn, did he purr.

Leaning back, Eren grinned. He took his phone out, and typed in a new message.

"You've gotten taller. A little."

He felt a boot kick his shin, and he let out a pained mewl mixed with happy laughter. It was quiet between them—always had been. Eren wouldn't change it for anything.

Another ping, another message. Eren looked at his phone.

"I love you."

The breeze was cool, bringing along with it the golden-kissed leaves. It swirled around them, almost like a silent cacophony of crinkling, crumpling and the noise of something rewritten all over again—of starting over—of beginning.

His fingers tapped the letters across the screen, the smile not leaving his face.

"I love you too, Levi."


	2. Chapter 2

Jean yawned as he tried rereading another paragraph, the words "transference" and "counter-transference" turning into watery ripples as he shut his eyes in utter exhaustion. Stretching out in his seat, he looked around, taking in the quietness of the city library. Sneaking a peek at the clock, 06:47 pm, Jean groaned as he bent his head down to rest at the table, two columns of books regarding psychoanalytic theories greeting him.

The low scratching of pen against paper made him turn, watching as Marco diligently copied something from a thick book that lay open beside him, a small smile on his face. Jean rolled his eyes; only Marco could stay in the library for five hours and still act like he was having the time of his life.

"What are you looking at?" Jean blinked, taking a moment before Marco's question sank in.

"You." He replied, simply. He smirked, seeing the other man's suddenly reddening face at Jean's answer.

"M—me?" Marco squeaked, hands stilling.

 _So, that's what it takes to make him stop_.

"Yeah, you. Like how weird it is that you were here since lunch and, yet, you look like you just won the lottery or something."

Marco shook his head, frowning, face still read. "S—shut up. This is an big project for me, okay?"

Jean laughed, reaching his left foot to lightly graze it against the other's leg. "Hey, I was just kidding. I know how important this is to you. I'm just bored here."

The noise of a book falling made Jean turn, glancing to the far side of the room and he saw one of his school mates—Eren Jae-something—leave, a shorter man with a deadpan expression in tow. Boyfriend, Jean thought, as he watched their interlocked fingers.

He continued to watch them, their retreating figures fading into the growing darkness beyond the entrance.

"I think it's sweet," Marco spoke as Jean returned to his books. The other man had also been watching the couple, something warm and tender in his eyes. Jean felt his heart beat a little faster. He ignored it.

They continued to work, Marco on his biology paper and Jean with his psychology assignment. As the minutes turned to hours, somewhere along the lines, Jean's leg made contact with Marco's. He didn't pull it back, feeling the other leg lean against his. Neither broke contact until the librarian told them to leave, pointing at the clock glaring a red 10:04 pm.

Walking towards home—they lived close, has been since they were little—their shoulders brushed, but neither pulled away. As Jean turned, his house a block nearer than Marco's, he turned and maybe stood a little too close as he said goodbye, eyes counting the freckles on the other's face.

Marco, if he had noticed or not, said nothing, save a "See you tomorrow, Jean" before smiling, also standing a little too close.

* * *

Jean guffawed as the hero of the movie made another sleazy attempt to impress the girl, Marco laughing beside him. They were the only ones in the movie theatre, in the middle of the day, where the rest of the world was at lunch. It was Jean's idea, to skip class and watch a movie.

Actually, everything that screamed "rule-breaker" was mostly Jean's idea, Marco following only because someone had to keep an eye on the man before he ended up in jail or something.

As the movie continued on, Marco went to grab some popcorn from the container in Jean's lap. His fingers came in contact with the Jean's, who also had the same idea at the same time.

Flustered and unsure of what to do, his fingers stilled, feeling Jean's index lightly touch his. Repressing the shiver that crawled up his spine, Marco recalled his hand quietly. A few seconds later, another hand came into his vision, close to his mouth, popcorn held between his fingers. He glanced at the other man—saw Jean looking straight at the screen—before opening his lips. The popcorn fell into his mouth, cheese flavouring tickling his tongue as he ate.

A few minutes later, Marco grabbed some off the container and raised his hand to Jean's lips, felt the other open them before Marco released them, and he swore Jean kissed his fingers as he did so.

The movie played on, ignored by the two men as they continued to feed each other, stealing tiny slivers of kisses here and there over and over again.

* * *

The bustle of the noisy canteen during lunch time surrounded Jean as he found the table Marco was sitting at, plopping his tray down before taking a seat beside the other. Soon, Armin—one of their close friends, really smart, really small guy—took a seat in front of them.

"What's up?" Jean asked the shortest one out of the three, digging into his sandwich as Marco greeted with a muffled "Hi, Armin" as he, too, ate.

Armin gave them a smile before sighing, taking a piece of French fries into his mouth. "The professor didn't get our assignments. I spent two days on it."

Jean grimaced; he hated those kinds of things. Beside him, Marco made a sympathetic noise, said something about his zoology professor doing the same thing once.

As they continued to eat, conversation lightly flowing, Jean felt Marco inch closer to him. Not at all bothered by it—even welcoming it, in fact—Jean pushed closer as well. Marco asked about what Armin's assignment was, watched the shorter blond's eyes lit up and he began talking excitedly as Marco smiled along.

Jean glanced at the other, taking in the freckled cheeks, the dark hair, the interest gleaming in his eyes. Marco always had the ability to cheer people up, to find something in people that made them special. He made Jean feel that way, a lot.

Without even being aware of his actions, Jean lightly wrapped an arm around the other's waist. Then, to his astonishment and pleasure, he felt Marco's hand grasp his, folding their fingers against his stomach.

Jean looked at him, saw a grin even as he continued to talk to Armin. His chest suddenly hurt, but it was a good pain—like the tension in his muscles after a good work out or the kinks in his back after finishing a really long report and knowing he got it right.

Jean liked this kind of pain, and he liked it even more as Marco's thumb started to trace circles on the skin of his hand.

Feeling light and happy, Jean joined in the conversation—teasing Armin and smiling as Marco looked at him with something tender.

* * *

Jean realized that loving Marco was the same as breathing. It was almost normal, like a function his body had been born with. He had expected something different to happen when he finally admitted that, yes, he loved Marco.

He expected fireworks, butterflies in the pit of his stomach, ice to run through his veins and his soul to sing with glee.

He expected fleeting touches to spark excitement in his groin—they always had, to be quite honest, but it had gotten so common even before Jean realized he was in love with Marco that it was like breathing, like existing.

He realized that knowing he was in love with Marco and not knowing he was in love with Marco was eerily similar. His actions were the same, his words were the same, even the light of something tender, something warm in the other's eyes were the same. Like Marco had always looked at him like that.

He realized that, yes, Marco had always looked at him like that, and Jean knew that he had always loved Marco, ever since they were young.

As they continued to walk home from the university, shoulders touching briefly, Jean glanced at the other. Marco turned to look at him, smiling. Jean took in that smile, those kind eyes, the freckles that Jean loved to poke and count and Jean couldn't help it if he suddenly wrapped his arms around Marco, face in the crook of the other's neck.

Marco squawked, and though it was a really unflattering noise, Jean found it incredibly sexy. Just to hear it again, he nuzzled his nose down the other's collarbone, inhaling his scent—traces of cologne, of freshly laundered clothes and of something inherently Marco.

"J—Jean, stop that. It t—tickles!" He laughed as the other stuttered, yet Marco's hands gripped Jean's hips close—like he never wanted to let go.

Jean leaned his head back, arms not releasing their hold on Marco. He leaned in, faintly pressing their lips together. He didn't need to say the words, to seal it, because he knew that Marco knew and he knew that Marco felt the same.

 _Just like breathing_ , Jean thought as he deepened the kiss.

Marco squawked once more.


End file.
